My stomach lurched when I saw that Kate McCann had written a book about her daughter's disappearance, entitled Madeleine and serialised in the Sun. Not because I thought she shouldn't have written it but because I could sense them coming – "them" being the professional haters, the abusive, gloating chorus, who have denounced, castigated and accused the McCanns, online and off, ever since that night in May 2007 when Madeleine McCann disappeared from Praia da Luz, Portugal. If Kate McCann's book was coming out, so surely would they?

At the time of writing, there was only the first Sun extract to look at. It featured the night Madeleine went missing and Kate's recurring visions of Madeleine being tortured and murdered by paedophiles, the latter so all-consuming, Kate writes, that she wanted "to rip her own skin off".

All proceeds from the book will go towards finding Madeleine, which seems logical. How else are the McCanns supposed to raise money for their international campaign – holding a few car boot sales? Clearly the McCanns have made peace with the fact that the last thing they want to think about is the thing people are most likely to pay to hear, see or read about. I'd imagine producing that book was pure torment, but it had to be done. Why then the roar of hostility and censure that accompanies pretty much every move the McCanns make?

It is high time the McCann haters pushed off. I am all for free speech but they've had their say and, raking through innumerable online "wailing walls", most of what they've said is repetitive rubbish. Here are some examples: "The McCanns shouldn't have left their children alone while they ate in a restaurant 100 yards away." Obviously, and the McCanns have expressed regret over their mistake many times.

"A chavvy single mother who'd let her kid be abducted wouldn't have had all this sympathy." In truth, public and media alike tied themselves into PC knots not to appear "prejudiced" towards Karen Matthews when Shannon went "missing". In the end, it was one of Matthews's "chavvy" mates who had the guts to confront her about her lies.

"There is firm evidence that the McCanns killed Madeleine and then concealed the body." No, there isn't. Don't the people who spout such nonsense have anything better to do, such as musing on grassy knolls or looking for Elvis in the supermarket? Hey, Bin Laden may still be alive – get your conspiracy-hungry teeth into that!

Then there is the mindset that the McCanns are "asking for it" because they keep placing themselves in the public eye – as if they have a choice. They don't exactly seem the types to want to appear in newspapers or on television. One can't imagine them having fun with Ant and Dec, or rustling up a double-baked souffle on MasterChef. Now, though, they are stuck in the zone of "reluctant celebrity", forced to keep hankering for attention.

This is the McCanns' special circle of hell – they are off the current news agenda but for them the story isn't over. They are not natural exhibitionists but circumstances dictate that they must keep coming out and "performing". Superficial generational differences aside, they remind me of Winnie Johnson, now terminally ill but still cropping up in the media, begging Ian Brady to tell her where her son, Keith Bennett, is buried on the moors. If anyone feels sympathy for Mrs Johnson, they should feel the same for the McCanns.

No one could deny that, in the past four years, the McCanns have been judged thoroughly. With this book, there is an opportunity for this mood, this element, to pass and for the haters to back off. It seems clear that, far from self-justifying, or attention-seeking, this book is what it has always been about for the McCanns – a practical solution to fundraising.

What a thought – Ed canoodling with Neil Kinnock

Ed Miliband has invited fiancee Justine Thornton to his stag do. Meanwhile, Abigail Clancy has banned Peter Crouch from having one. One hates to get all Nuts magazine about this, but: "Oi, chicks, enuff, get off the male turf."

One is aware of Crouch's "mistakes with the ladeez", but Clancy's paranoia is surprising, not least because she's gorgeous – like a human Claudia Schiffer. If a woman can't trust her man for one night while he's blind drunk, wearing fake breasts, having his eyebrows shaved off, then what is the civilised world coming to?

The Miliband-Thorntons are to have a hen/stag hybrid, a "hag do", at their home with "minimal guests". Presumably the party theme is "Couldn't be razzed". One imagines Ed greeting guests in his pyjamas, while Justine hands around Doritos in bowls. Or perhaps still in the bags?

Justine should have her own do. What's she going to miss – Ed in his cups, cuddling Neil Kinnock, both vying to give the most electrifying deconstruction of Keir Hardie? She's got the next 40 years of that. The hen/stag do is all about inebriation, disgrace and, above all, the separation of the sexes. It's tradition, don't fight it.

So Cheryl's gone – a nation yawns

It has finally been announced that Cheryl Cole will be a judge on the US X Factor. Who is remotely interested? It's not that I am too high-minded for populist nonsense (the bar of popular culture has to be placed pretty low before I can't limbo under it). It's rather that I've been burnt out by all the contradictory reports. Every day, there's been rolling news of "Cheryl's got it!" or "Cheryl's lost it because of her accent/hair/body odour" (delete as appropriate).

The idea of Simon Cowell being denied his way on anything to do with his shows is patently absurd. He wanted La Cole as a judge, so she was always a shoo-in. The rest was just a ruse to create dramatic tension. All this around a show that isn't really broadcast here, except if you count ITV2, home of Miss Marple omnibuses.

The only relevant information is that Cowell and Cole won't be appearing on the UK X Factor and, going by what happened to Britain's Got Talent, they will probably be replaced by Zammo from Grange Hill and the clown doll from the test card.

Nevertheless, we're supposed to be dribbling with excitement because she has got a job thousands of miles away on a show that doesn't register here.

I enjoy having my cultural buttons cynically tweaked by light entertainment moguls as much as the next person. However, geography matters. There's already quite enough pointless rubbish and life-sapping brainrot to be getting on with nationally for anyone to be overly concerned with what's happening Stateside.

Off to the US with you, Mr Cowell and Ms Cole, and the best of British. Just don't expect the British to be interested.